


No Man Can Shun It

by regshoe



Category: Flight of the Heron - D. K. Broster, Gleam in the North - D. K. Broster, The Dark Mile - D. K. Broster
Genre: Backstory, Canon Compliant, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26305225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regshoe/pseuds/regshoe
Summary: Time passes; the heron flies on.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 8





	No Man Can Shun It

**Author's Note:**

> This is really a fic for all three books, but it mostly uses details from the first two, with only minor spoilers for _The Dark Mile_.
> 
> Thanks very much to Hyarrowen for beta reading, and to theseatheseatheopensea for helping with canon details during the planning stages!

O'er the hills and o'er the main  
To Flanders, Portugal and Spain  
Queen Anne commands and we obey  
Over the hills and far away  
— _Traditional_

And at night when I go to my bed of slumber  
Thoughts of my true love run in my mind  
When I turn around to embrace my darling  
Instead of gold, sure it's brass I find

And I wish the Queen would call home her armies  
From the West Indies, America and Spain...  
— _Traditional_

...the shadowy dead Scot of Marlborough’s wars seemed, to his namesake at least, to assume the shape of a symbol or a prophecy.  
— _The Flight of the Heron_

The room was small and the furnishings humble, but it was evident that some effort had gone into making its appearance as cheerful as it was: the bright patterns of the curtains and tablecloth, the bunch of primroses in a glass on the windowsill, the carefully arranged books on the mantelpiece—there was a a volume of Walter Scott's poetry and White's _Natural History of Selborne_ , amongst a few others—all spoke of care and attention. The view from the little diamond-paned window, of a tiny but well-kept garden overlooked by an expanse of the bright fields and woods of Oxfordshire, added greatly to this impression of quiet happiness.

At either side of the table two men, one in late middle age and the other a youth, were seated at their breakfast. The older man gazed reflectively out of the window as he held his slice of toast. He had fine, aristocratic features with a mild expression, gentle in both senses of the word, and he must have been handsome in his youth; indeed, he was still not unpleasing to the eye, and his short, wispy grey hair lent an air of venerability to his appearance. Had the observer looked beneath the table they would have seen that his left leg, from the knee down, consisted of a wooden peg.

Meanwhile the young man was dividing his attention between a plate of kidneys and a newspaper which lay open upon the table before him.

'There's dreadful news from Spain,' he said, though his tone was not one of dread. 'See this,' and he passed the news-sheet across the table, indicating the article with his finger. 'Buonaparte's successes only increase, it seems.'

'So they do,' said the other, scanning the article. 'But these successes cannot be allowed to continue. I believe Mr Aston was right to say that we must intervene before long.'

The young man smiled. He had a strong, eager face, a high colour and thick, dark hair arranged with an attempt at the fashion of the day, but with no particular neatness.

'I went for a stroll in the grounds of Aston House this morning, uncle,' he remarked, resuming the attack on his food with knife and fork. 'I met Henry there, and we went round the lake together.' Henry Aston was a few years his senior and an ensign in the 33rd Regiment of Foot, currently at home on leave; he had long been an object of the younger man's admiration. 'He quite agrees with you about Buonaparte—thinks there shall be some fine opportunities for him to prove his courage before long!' He paused a moment to chew and swallow a mouthful of kidney, then continued, in a softer voice, 'And for me also, you know.'

His uncle looked up. 'Yes, I do hope so,' he said softly. Captain Marsham was himself an old soldier, and he was pleased that his nephew was so ready to follow him in that career; but to hear ' _the drums beat up again_ ' was not an unmingled happiness to him.

'Oh, I remember something you shall like to hear!' the young man went on. 'Such a naturalist as you are. Well, Henry and I were interrupted in our conversation by the heron that lives on the lake, which practically erupted from the ground beneath our feet just as Henry was telling me about something Lieutenant-Colonel Wellesley said. The bird was carrying a stick in its beak; it looked very odd flying away from us. I believe it intends to nest there this year—that'll give you something to take an interest in while I'm away!'

'I am glad to hear it,' said Captain Marsham, frowning.

'It's a funny thing,' said his nephew musingly, 'how one's thoughts are influenced by the world about one. The flight of that heron set me to thinking about where I am to go with the regiment—to Spain or Portugal, I hope, or perhaps Spanish America. Though I doubt the bird could fly that far!'

His uncle looked up sharply at this, his expression now almost disconcerted. But all he said was, 'No, indeed.'

*

_The forest had exchanged its usual underwood for a new one: in place of the scrubby hazels, briars and hollies that grew beneath the taller trees around it, the ground of this wide clearing had sprouted a covering of tents, makeshift shelters, cooking fires and all the usual sights of a large army camp. To Major Philip Windham, walking slowly along the edge of the denser part of the encampment, it was a familiar sight—a reassuring one, on a night like this. Voices drifted across to him on the breeze, along with the smoke from the fires and the smell of cooking meat. Some were murmuring quietly, others raised in laughter or song, and they spoke an astonishing variety of languages; for the army that had made this camp was not only a British one, but Dutch, Austrian, Prussian and Danish besides—the forces of half Europe ranged against the might of Louis XIV's France._

_It was the tenth of September, 1709. For nearly two weeks the French and Allied armies had been encamped at Malplaquet, practically facing each other, reluctant to attack. The Duke of Marlborough, on the advice of the other Allied generals, was waiting for further reinforcements to arrive; meanwhile Marshal Villars, the French commander, had not been idle in awaiting their attack. They would not have much longer to wait._

_Perhaps this was why Major Windham, on this cool evening, felt so much more at peace than he had since they arrived here. The confrontation for which they had been waiting was to come at last, and his fate, and the fates of the hundred thousand men who were now talking, arguing, laughing and eating their suppers beside those campfires, lay on the knees of the gods. He would do his duty tomorrow; he could do nothing more._

_For now, he had left his own regiment—the business of the day was over, and his men would manage well enough without him for a while—to go and pay a visit._

_He had reached another part of the camp, where the voices of the soldiers took on another aspect again. De Lalo's regiment of fusiliers was an exemplar of the mingling of countries and peoples in Marlborough's army, for, although its colonel was a French Huguenot, the regiment itself was a Scottish one._

_Philip found his friend, as he had expected to find him, sitting alone beneath a tree, surveying his men with a quiet little smile. He looked quite at leisure; but Philip, who knew him well, saw the sharpness in his light blue eyes, the little signs of alertness in his posture, which gave the lie to this appearance._

_'Good evening, Keith,' he said._

_'Windham!' It was an easier and more natural smile which lit up the thin face now. Major Keith got to his feet and took Philip's hand in greeting. 'I was just now thinking where you had got to.'_

_John Keith did not speak the broad Scots that most of his men did, for he had grown up in Caithness in the Highlands. He came from a minor northern branch of the Keith clan, and was a distant cousin of the Earl Marischal—he who only a year before had been imprisoned and sent for trial for his participation in the failed Jacobite attempt of that year, and whose son was, ambiguously enough, serving under Marlborough in this very army. George Keith's allegiances were not to remain with the Government in later years; and as for John, his political views were one of many things about him which his English friend had never been able to make out. The man was an enigma—but a beautiful and brilliant one._

_They walked on together under the cover of the nearby trees, tall oaks and beeches upon whose stately forms the deep green cloaks of late summer were wearing a little ragged. They were not really alone here—could not be so anywhere, amidst an army of a hundred thousand men—but, since those men all had their own concerns to think of, no one was watching them, and as they got further into the shelter of the trees they allowed themselves to walk a little closer together._

_'It cannot be long now,' said Philip, abruptly—there was no need to say to what he referred. 'Think you that it will go well?'_

_John Keith considered this question for a while. 'I could tell you my opinion of the Duke's wisdom, and of the strength of our forces as compared with the French—but, in fact, I think it useless to speculate any more. You shall do what you can; so will I. As for the rest of it—' and he gave a little shrug: an expressive gesture, and far from the flippant one that it might have been._

_'Yes,' said Major Windham quietly, 'I agree.' Indeed, he was struck by the concordance between Keith's words and his own earlier thoughts; but that calm equilibrium which had been his earlier in the evening could not quite keep its sureness when he came to think, less abstractedly, of his friend. But John was always philosophical. Looking away into the trees with a little smile, Philip remembered a time in the past—it had been at Ramillies, more than three years ago—when he had been as steady in the face of a far more urgent peril. Philip Windham owed his life to that steadiness. He believed that occasion had been the origin of what he now felt for John... no, he could not be philosophical at the prospect of harm coming to him._

_Now, watching Philip's face and seeming to read his thoughts, John smiled at him, a knowing and rather sad smile. They said nothing more for several minutes. It was growing dark, and the campfires of the Fusiliers shone between the trees like distant stars. Somewhere in the dark a nightingale was singing, the rapid notes of its flute-like voice descending towards them from its perch in one of the trees._

_But then the cry of another bird sounded from somewhere away beyond the forest—from some lake nearby, perhaps, thought Philip vaguely. John raised his eyebrows. 'It is not the first time,' he remarked, 'that we have heard that bird.'_

_'No,' said Philip, and felt all at once terribly cold, as though the strange, harsh cry had confirmed those fears which he was still trying vainly to quell within his heart._

_John had noticed the change in his expression. 'You do not seriously believe...' he said softly. 'After so long?'_

_Philip said nothing; and John Keith sighed, and continued, 'I consider it a terrible irony that you, who never saw the Highlands, should put so much more faith in such a thing than I do. And I do not say 'tis nothing. But that meaning—Philip, I do not believe such a thing can be known for certain.'_

_His tone at the beginning of this speech had been light and laughing, but it was not so by the end of it; and he reached over and took Philip's hand. Then, making an abrupt return to levity, he said, 'Well, but if you die a hero's death tomorrow I shall certainly give you all the memorial such a hero should deserve. I shall erect a monument upon the shores of Loch Calder, and I shall name my firstborn son after you.'_

_Philip laughed, despite himself. 'Do not say such things...' he muttered, but squeezed John's hand. 'In any case, I cannot believe that you shall ever have a son—you, who never looked at a woman!'_

_'Hmm—not while I could look at you, 'tis true, my love,' said John, with a warmer smile._

_Between the trees and the gathering dusk they were now more or less hidden from view, and Philip pulled him against a tall oak and kissed him once. All the varied emotions of the evening went into that kiss, and they were both distracted by it for some time. When, at length, they broke apart, Philip said, his voice low but steady, 'Whatever should happen tomorrow—I hope you will remember that.'_

_And he did not forget it._

*

'I wished to speak to you about the same thing, in fact,' said Captain Marsham's nephew, recalling the old man from musings upon a subject far away from the bright morning before him. 'Have you spoken to Squire Aston about it recently?'

'I have not seen the squire for a week,' said Robert Marsham slowly, still not quite present in the moment. 'Do you wish for to me to enquire about it again?'

Robert was, as I have said, an old soldier; he had fought in the American war, some thirty years ago, and it was in the doomed defence of Yorktown that he had received the wound which had cost him his leg. Afterwards, his health and his freedom recovered—long enough they both had taken—he returned from the newly independent United States weary of fighting, and went into a quiet retirement. He was by birth the younger son of a distinguished but improvident family; with his father dead, his elder brother hardly to be depended upon and but little fortune of his own with which to supplement the small income from the sale of his commission, he seemed doomed to a life of genteel poverty. At this point, however, Mr George Aston, a comfortably wealthy Oxfordshire squire and an old friend of the family, happened to hear of Robert's plight and took pity upon him. He offered to the wounded soldier a little cottage which stood upon his estate, and—more valuable even than that—he offered his friendship and sympathy, which meant more to Captain Marsham than he, resigned to an expectation of loneliness and obscurity, and his heart shadowed by something more than his friend was aware of, had quite expected.

And so Robert Marsham began a new life; it was a quiet life, alone in the cottage with his housekeeper Mrs Taylor—a good, sensible local woman whom Squire Aston had recommended to him when he arrived—and it was in a quiet way that he came, in time, to love the place. The pale pink roses which climbed the trellis in his garden; the rambling Elizabethan brick house, a picture of old England, where Mr Aston and his family lived; the bright Cherwell winding its way between the willows a few fields away; all these found their places in his heart, and by imperceptible degrees, over the intervening years, he came to look upon this obscure and happy corner of the world as his own home.

And yet, even now he would have given it all up in a moment to have another love beside him again...

The kind old squire had died some years since, equally mourned by high and low; but all his family were of a like mood to himself, and under 'young Mr Aston'—as he was still known at the age of nearly sixty—things had gone on much as before. Henry Aston, he of the 33rd Foot and the astute political observations, was the old man's grandson.

Young Mr Aston, of an age with Captain Marsham, had with him a more easy friendship. He sometimes wondered—and let Marsham know that he wondered—whether the captain, who after all was not so old yet, would ever marry; indeed, he made efforts to introduce him to several eligible young ladies of the neighbourhood, but to no avail. Had he but known it, it was impossible that Robert Marsham should marry. His temperament was of that sort which gives its love completely, unreservedly and once only; and for many years now his heart had lain cold beneath the clay in Virginia.

*

_Her son had been in the world a little over twenty-four hours, and Mrs Windham was, to use the common phrase, as well as could be expected. She was sitting up in bed when Philip came into the room, the child asleep in her arms and her eyes bright and alert, gazing past where her industrious maid was fussing with the curtains out towards the view over the trees of the park. The sun was shining, and it was spring; the wide sky over north Norfolk presented to her eyes its loveliest shade of blue, and the air that drifted in through the window held a wonderful freshness._

_The maid glanced up from her work at the sound of Philip's entrance. Seeing him, she dropped a curtsey and left them alone—though not, of course, quite alone any longer._

_It was a period of quiet for the British Army. The War of the Spanish Succession was over at last, and the Jacobite attempt for which the present year was to be remembered was as yet not so much as a glint in the eye of the ill-fated Earl of Mar; and so Colonel Windham, as he was now, had returned to his home, and could be present for the birth of his son._

_His wife had drawn her gaze away from the open window, and smiled at him as he went over to sit down on the bed. He took her hand, then reached over and twitched aside the blanket, the better to look at the child._

_'A little dear, isn't he?' she said, with some satisfaction._

_Philip could only agree with this, though the baby was still fast asleep, its tiny face screwed up in a frown which—had he but known it—was a perfect mirror of its father's own characteristic expression._

_The mother, meanwhile, was looking again towards the view outside._

_'Do you wish me to close the window?' Philip asked suddenly. 'If you are cold—'_

_'No, no, I am not cold,' she said, her tone a little dismissive of his solicitude. 'I was only thinking of what a lovely day it is. A happy introduction to the world for this little one.' She thought about this for a few moments, regarding her sleeping son, and then said, 'What are we to call him?'_

_'I thought you wanted to name him after your father,' said Philip._

_'I did,' she said, thoughtfully, 'but now that I see him, I don't think he looks like a William, somehow. What do you think?'_

_Colonel Windham hesitated; for a memory—treacherous memory!—had come suddenly upon him._

_He had never told her the full story; for a long time it had been too fresh a grief, and, in any case, there were things one did not tell one's second love. But she knew a little of it—enough to recognise the name, he hoped; enough, perhaps, to understand something of why..._

_'You have something in mind, I can see,' she said, smiling slyly. 'Tell me.'_

_'I do,' he said quietly; but he did not immediately answer her request._

_It was on a visit to his relations in London that he had first met her. Three years had then passed since the disaster of Malplaquet, but its shadow was still heavy upon him, and when a beautiful and fascinating young lady had received his polite attentions with so much special recognition—for such he had believed it to be—the results for a man whose heart had been crushed for years under a great grief were, perhaps, inevitable. He had, in short, been swept away by the sight of her beauty and by the promise of new happiness—the promise that some happiness was still possible for him—which it had held. Well, he had had leisure enough to repent it since then; and though at first he had turned his face away from the streak of cruelty in that mocking laughter which it had once seemed so delightful a mark of her confidence that he was allowed to share, and from the unmistakeable looks which she cast from time to time upon other men, he had of late been unable even to do this. But he understood his own heart rather better than he had done then, also. The weight of the past lay still heavy upon it, and beneath this burden he could not give her all the care he wanted to, or wanted to be able to; and, since this was so, could he blame her if she was not quite what she ought to be as his wife?_

_He surfaced from his thoughts at a little sound made by the child in its sleep—the beginnings of a cry, quietened at once by a movement of the tender arms which held it. Oh, he must not think of such things today, of all days..._

_Philip Windham, whose knowledge of women was not extensive, believed the improving influence of motherhood to be universal, and could think that his wife would in future no longer be what he could not deny she had been. Less foolishly, he wanted to put behind him the shadow of the past—and he believed that John would want him to be happy. And she was happy today, and more beautiful than ever in that happiness... The care with which she held the little child seemed to have a promise in it of better things. He felt sure, today, that she would keep that promise._

_It was, as she had said, a lovely day, with the sun shining bravely upon the dew-bedecked grass, and the new leaves fresh and bright upon the tall ash tree that stood guard beside the corner of the house. It was right, Philip thought, that children should be born in May. He was glad that this day was not such as might have encouraged those morbid and melancholy reflections to which he was far too often a prey. Was it still possible, after that awful ending of five and a half years since, that there might be a future? Today he could believe that it was. It was right that it should be so._

_And so he turned back to his wife, and met her gaze, and said, 'We shall call him Keith.'_

*

'I am sure,' said Robert Marsham, 'that Mr Aston is making the arrangements he spoke of. But of course I shall remind him of it, if you wish.'

'Oh, you must think me an impetuous young fool, I know,' said his nephew—Robert smiled at this—'but, hearing all this news from the Continent, not to speak of Henry's stories—I wish to be there as soon as may be. I am sure you understand.'

'Of course,' said Robert. He had once felt very much the same way himself.

That Captain Marsham could not contemplate marriage was, felt Mr Aston, an unfortunate thing, for he was fond of children—he doted upon little Henry and his sisters, to the amusement and pleasure of Mrs Aston—and he would have liked to have a child of his own to make so much of. And so it was a surprise, but by no means a misfortune, when, after he had been settled seven or eight years in the neighbourhood of Aston House, his nephew arrived in his life. The story of his birth was sadly commonplace. That older brother who had done so little for Captain Marsham in his hour of need had merely added another piece of improvidence to his life, in the seduction of a woman far below that station which was rather wasted upon him; one tragedy succeeded upon another, and the innocent child, robbed of both parents before it could even be christened, was left to depend upon its father's relations.

Captain Marsham had discussed the matter at some length with Squire Aston. As soon as he had heard of the situation he was determined to take the child in and raise it as his own, and to avoid any scandal he decided to introduce it to the neighbourhood simply as his orphaned nephew, a plan which the squire approved. Therefore he found a wet-nurse in the village, and meanwhile made preparations to receive the boy into his own house, when he was old enough. Until this time the cottage where Robert Marsham dwelt had been, though by no means dirty or shabby—that, Mrs Taylor would never have permitted—a rather plain and sad place; but now, all this was changed. The cheerful wallpaper, the carefully chosen ornaments and furnishings, which now adorned the house dated from this period, as did the general air of bright happiness which had pervaded the rooms ever since.

There remained only the problem of the child's Christian name—for it still had none. Had it been a girl, Robert would certainly have named her after her mother; but he had no wish to bestow his brother's memory upon such an innocent. The mother's relatives, whose chief wish was to escape both shame and expense, had no opinion upon the matter. For a while Robert was undecided; and then he remembered, and knew what he must do.

*

_Captain Robert Marsham gazed down across the wooded hillside, where in the distance the rippling sound of the Brandywine Creek was still faintly audible through the dusk, and wondered what he was to do._

_It was September 1777, more than a year since the American colonies had first asserted an independence which they were still fighting to establish. In this day's battle—a long enough day it had been, and with an eighteen miles' march at the start of it—his company had, he smiled to recall, acquitted themselves well. But he had been careless; and, moreover, had reckoned without the American riflemen, those formidable marksmen who had honed their art hunting on the frontiers of this wild country, and who in battle would hide themselves behind trees and pick off British officers with fearsome accuracy. Robert, separated from his men in the confusion of the fray, must have made an ideal target. He did not quite remember what had happened after that; but he must have got away somehow, and now he was alone upon the empty field._

_His wounded shoulder ached more insistently with every passing moment, and did not seem to have stopped bleeding. Later, he would remember with vivid clarity the sound of a bird which called repeatedly from high up in one of the trees, its voice clear and bright; he thought vaguely how strange it was that he, who could have put a name to the call of any bird he heard in England, had no idea what it was._

_It was while he lay there, trying with an increasingly wavering determination to force himself to get to his feet and go to find his company, that he heard the sound of footsteps upon the fallen leaves. He stiffened, and reached with his good arm for the pistol at his side; but the man was not an enemy, for he now came into view, wearing the uniform—to Robert's eyes still rather an outlandish dress, but a friendly one nonetheless—of the 71st Foot. He did not seem to have a particular goal in mind, but walked slowly onwards with a puzzled frown upon his face; and then his eyes fixed upon Robert, and the look changed to one of concern. He hurried over to the fallen soldier._

_'Oh—you are hurt,' he said, rather unnecessarily, and with that light lilting accent which went with his uniform. His soft dark hair, confined by a ribbon at the back of his head, fell forward over one shoulder as he knelt down beside Robert. 'Here, take this,' and he handed him a small flask of brandy._

_Robert's head cleared a little under the influence of the spirit, foul-tasting though it was. 'Who are you—why—' he began confusedly, and then, remembering his priorities, 'How went the battle?'_

_At this the young man gave a little satisfied smile. 'We won,' he said. 'The rebels have retreated—but even so, we should not linger here alone. Can you walk?'_

_'I believe so,' said Robert. The stranger was not a large man, and was rather delicate in appearance; still, it was no weak arm which went round Robert—avoiding his wounded shoulder—helped him to his feet and supported him across the ground._

_'It is not far,' the young man said, in response to the question which Robert was too proud actually to ask. 'We—my own regiment, and some others—are making camp over yonder, above the ford. I shall take you there.'_

_He was as good as his word; but, once Captain Marsham was returned to his own company and left safe in the hands of a surgeon, the stranger disappeared without giving Robert a chance to thank him, let alone ask his name._

_Happily, the wound was not so serious as Robert had feared it might be; but it kept him from seeing any more of the fighting which took place in the two weeks intervening before the British captured Philadelphia, and so, instead of having this distraction, he was left in idleness to think over his encounter with the strange young man. The more he did so, the more he wanted to know who the man was and why he had done what he had. He questioned the surgeon who treated his wound, who he knew had a wide acquaintance amongst the army, and from him learnt that his saviour's name was Cameron, and that he was a lieutenant in Fraser's regiment. More than this he could not discover._

_But he could not resign himself to leaving the thing a complete mystery. At Philadelphia, where the army were now established, and tolerably recovered from his wound, he went in search of the 71st; and by some excellent good fortune, he very soon found Lieutenant Cameron, standing outside his company's quarters in conversation with another Highlander. Glancing away for a moment, he saw Robert, and his face lit up at once in a smile—he had a very lovely smile, Robert noticed, all bright eyes and open warmth._

_'Captain Marsham! Excuse me for a moment, Charles...' He left his companion, and went over to Robert. 'You are quite well again, I see—I am glad!'_

_'You might well be glad to see me again, when you told me nothing whatever about yourself!' Robert could not help saying. 'But I have tracked you down, as you see. Seriously—I must thank you for the great service you did me.'_

_Lieutenant Cameron frowned a little at that. 'Oh, 'twas nothing,' he said. 'My duty to a wounded comrade, only.'_

_Robert would not accept this self-effacement. 'Nay, to save the life of a stranger, at some risk to yourself—for you could hardly go to safety as you ought, with me to encumber you—I will thank you for that.'_

_The frown disappeared as quickly as it had arrived; yes, he had very striking eyes... 'Very well,' said the Highlander, and he took Robert's hand._

_Robert took care not to lose him again, for he wished to know more of him. Much to his gratification, Lieutenant Cameron appeared to share this desire, and they saw a great deal of each other over that winter. And so, while the war progressed somewhat indifferently about them—for the hopes of a decisive victory which had been raised by the success at the Brandywine and the capture of Philadelphia were not fulfilled—these two more fortunate soldiers found a pleasant diversion from their cares in their growing friendship._

_The Camerons in Fraser's regiment were under the command of a Captain Charles Cameron of Fassefern, who was, explained Lieutenant Cameron, a distant cousin of his (Robert learnt a great deal about the Highland clans and their organisation from his new friend). He himself was the brother of a minor chieftain in Lochaber, and so was, like Robert, a younger son with his own way to make in the world; and the recruiting which went on in the Highlands—a fruitful ground for the regiments in those latter days of the eighteenth century, albeit they had been something else once—in anticipation of the American war had given him an opportunity to make it._

_Besides such confidences as these, their conversations touched upon many of the commonplace things of their life at Philadelphia, and the interests they found there. Robert was increasing his knowledge of American birds; and, upon sharing this project with Lieutenant Cameron, was introduced in return to a creditable little collection of local moth pupae. In this way the winter passed, and the spring. As the days grew brighter, and the officers began to speculate about where that year's campaigning might take them, Robert became gradually, gently aware that his feelings for his friend had developed into something other than friendship. He had known of his own inclinations in these matters for some time, and had ceased to be much troubled by the fact, so it was neither a surprise nor particularly unpleasant to him; indeed, Lieutenant Cameron—with his slim figure, his gentle voice and those deep, searching dark eyes of his, at which Robert could not help gazing in odd moments when he looked away from him—was such a beautiful young man that, Robert felt, his feelings could hardly have been other than what they were._

_Still, for some time he said nothing of it, though there were a few times—while out on foraging expeditions in the countryside of Pennsylvania, and on the summer's perilous march north back to New York—when he came close to it. He could not bear the thought that his friend might reject him, that he might lose what they had; but still, he continued to hope._

_It was not until the next October that the crisis came. They were then both at New York, where General Clinton was despairing over the constant depletions of his army necessary to attack and defend all the many places now of strategic importance to the war. Nevertheless, it had been resolved to assemble another detachment to sail for Georgia; and one bleak-looking, misty morning, Lieutenant Cameron sought out Robert and announced that the 71st Highlanders were to be amongst this force._

_'I know,' he said, responding to the look on Robert's face, for he had not said anything. 'I know. I shall miss you greatly—I shall think of you...'_

_It was but the fortune of war, and not unexpected; still, it might be years before they saw each other again, if... So he could not let him go without telling him._

_And, in the end, his fears of a rebuff were quite unjustified; and the grief of that parting was brightened for a little space by a far deeper joy._

_'Of all that has happened today...' said Lieutenant Cameron slowly, some time later, attempting to sum up these so greatly varied emotions; but, finding himself unsure how to finish the sentence, he leaned across and kissed Robert instead._

_'Cameron—' began Robert, a little unsteadily, when they broke apart._

_'Oh, my dear...' He was almost laughing, his lovely eyes shining with a mixture of relief, joy and pain. 'I think you might call me "Keith", now.' But he kissed him again then, and it was some time before Robert had a chance to do so._

_Robert Marsham had come to America with what he now realised were rather naive hopes of seeing glorious battles fought and won, and winning fame and distinction for himself. The doubtful progress of the war had not fulfilled these hopes; but, though he did not find what he expected, he had another and a far more precious gift, which he had never thought to gain._

*

And so Robert Marsham's nephew grew up in that little world, which he suited very well indeed: climbing the gnarled willows at the bottom of the garden, running after butterflies (which he seldom succeeded in catching; he was not so patient an entomologist as his uncle) in the fields, swimming in the Cherwell. And under his influence Captain Marsham's life, sorely shadowed for many years, grew gradually brighter. The boy spent much of his time up at Aston House, where he was treated almost as one of the family, having lessons with Henry and the girls and joining in the games they played in the great oak-panelled rooms and the unkempt but well-loved gardens.

In more recent years, Mr Aston had begun to have some scruples about young Master Marsham spending so much time amongst his own children. Not that he was ashamed of their friendship; but there was, he thought, some risk that, in the warm-hearted recklessness of youth, the boy might conceive a feeling warmer than friendship for Miss Sophia or Miss Catherine—which, of course, would never do. He need not have worried, however, for no such idea could have been further from the young man's mind. Nor did he—the possibility would never have occurred to Mr Aston, but it occurred to Captain Marsham, for more than one reason—ever evince anything beyond a younger-brotherly hero-worship for Henry. His fate lay elsewhere.

Another question raised itself as the boy approached young manhood: the question of what his future was to be. Of course he must make his own way in the world, and the circumstances of his birth, quiet as they were kept for now, might make that way none the easiest. But the army, a natural choice anyway when it had been Captain Marsham's own profession, presented no obstacles. Squire Aston, influenced at least as much by genuine good feeling towards the boy as by his decorous worries about his daughters, readily agreed to use his influence and his wealth to secure him a commission in a good regiment; and so the thing was decided. And, as Master Marsham himself had pointed out this morning, with the wars in France and elsewhere showing no sign of growing less heated, there was little doubt that there would be opportunities aplenty in a military career begun now.

But now Robert Marsham, in his musings, returned to the present, and looked at his nephew (as good as his son, he felt—had long so felt, though he seldom put it into words even to himself) across the empty breakfast plates, and thought, _but so soon..._

'I shall certainly speak to the squire,' he said slowly. 'I quite agree with you... but, my child, there are some matters about which I must speak to you first.' He looked out of the window. 'Come out into the garden; 'tis a fine day, and we must not waste it.'

To this his nephew happily assented; Captain Marsham rose and picked up his walking-stick from where it rested against the mantelpiece, and they went out together.

The day had that freshness which one only feels in its full strength in the spring, on a clear morning after a night of rain. The young leaves of the birches and hawthorns were dotted with tiny droplets of water; the sweet smell of rain upon the mould rose from the ground; a frog dived under the surface of the garden pond with a soft splashing sound as the two men approached. They walked about the garden for some time in silence, arm in arm, and presently stopped at the garden gate, which gave onto a meadow over which the first cowslips were casting their pale yellow glow.

'Did you ever wonder,' said Robert suddenly, 'why I gave you a Scotch name, when neither you nor I ever saw that country?'

Whatever young Master Marsham had expected of the conversation, it was not this. He considered the question for a few moments, gazing out across the meadow, and then said, 'Yes, I suppose I have wondered. But I am sure you had your reasons. You generally do,' he added with a smile.

'I had,' said his uncle.

And at this Keith caught the seriousness of his tone and manner, and frowned. 'What were they?' he said.

And Robert Marsham told him.

*

_'Have you good news?'_

_They had, after all, met again, when at the beginning of the year 1781 further forces were sent southwards; Robert, ever hopeful, was at last amongst them. In May they met General Cornwallis's army at Petersburg in Virginia, and Robert and Keith were reunited. Robert had heard news of the bloody fighting that had gone on in the south, and of the courage and valour shown by the 71st Regiment in particular, but he had had no certain tidings of Lieutenant Cameron for some time; and so it was a joyful meeting._

_Now, in a brief period of rest, they were sitting together under a tall chestnut tree—the shade of its leaves a welcome relief from the oppressive heat of the southern summer—and Keith was reading a letter which had arrived for him that morning from Scotland, a fond smile upon his face._

_'Aye, indeed,' he said in answer to Robert's question. 'My sister is married. I know the man—they were engaged before I last saw her, but for a long time he could not afford to marry—and I am sure they will be happy.' He gave a sigh. 'Oh, that I were back with them now...'_

_'You shall be able to return before long, I don't doubt,' said Robert, although in his heart he did._

_Keith smiled. 'When we both do return, I shall take you to stay at Ardroy, and you may meet them all. I'm sure you would like my family.'_

_'I shall look forward to it,' said Robert. He had heard much about the house of Ardroy and its inhabitants from his friend. There was the elder brother with whom Keith had not always agreed—the tale of how, as a young child, he had once pushed his brother into the loch was one of Keith's favourite stories—but who was now a steady and responsible laird. He lived in the old house with his lady, as well as the younger sister who had waited so patiently for her own sweetheart, and their mother._

_Now, happy at any opportunity to talk about the place, Keith was describing some new aspect of it—a certain view over the hills which, he promised, he would show Robert when they went there together._

_'It sounds an idyllic place,' commented Robert. 'I wonder that you could ever leave it.'_

_At this Keith frowned. 'I think you would understand,' he said softly, and looked down again at the letter. 'You see, they are all so happy in the life they lead there—the life they ought to have, I mean—Donald and his lady, and now the others too. It is right that they should be so—but _I_ could not be. I believe that was why I went to America.'_

_Robert reached over and pressed his hand briefly, for he did understand this. He himself had often thought that, little suited as his own elder brother was to the position of heir, he would have been even less so, and been glad that things had fallen out as they had. But it was not a lesser thing that he and Keith had here—he would not believe that, however much the world pressed the belief upon him._

_He was about to make some commonplace remark in an attempt to lead his friend away from these thoughts; but Keith had apparently found his own way to some less gloomy subject of reflection, for he said now, in quite a different voice, 'Robert, I have been meaning to tell you something else about my family. I think I shall.'_

_'Oh?' said Robert._

_'It concerns my father.' Keith's father had died shortly before he himself set sail for America, but Robert had heard very little else about him. 'He—I suppose you know,' he continued, a little hesitantly, 'that the Camerons were "out" in the Forty-Five?'_

_This was a surprising turn; but it was a subject about which Robert was curious, for he did know that Clan Cameron had fought for the Young Pretender, more than thirty years since._

_There were not a few of the sons of the Forty-Five who redeemed their fathers' sins upon the fields of America in those days—General Simon Fraser, and Charles Cameron of Fassefern, were only two of those in much the same position as Keith himself, and the ranks of the new Highland regiments had swelled apace as war threatened in the colonies—and it had struck Robert as a curious thing how so many of these old Jacobites were now fighting against rebellion on behalf of the very Government against which they and their families had once rebelled. But he could hardly ask his friend to resolve this contradiction, delicate a subject as it must be; and so he listened with some interest now that the story was volunteered._

_'Well,' continued Keith now, 'my father fought in the army of the—young Chevalier.' The slight hesitation which preceded that neutral epithet, and the touch of pride in his voice, were equally unmistakeable. 'He was wounded at Culloden, and he and my mother spent some years afterwards in exile in France. But what I meant to tell you was that during the Rising he met an English officer, who was his friend—who saved his life when he was wounded, though they were enemies. He was killed soon after that; but my father never forgot him.' He hesitated, then went on, 'And, curiously, though he was an Englishman, he bore a Scottish Christian name—Keith Windham.'_

_'Hence your own name.' said Robert softly._

_'Yes. My father would speak of him, sometimes, as though he were quite close by, still—I do not believe the grief ever left him...'_

_While telling this story he had been gazing into the middle distance, where a group of soldiers were supervising the unloading of a wagon carrying provisions, but now he turned to look at Robert. 'So,' he concluded, 'I cannot but wonder that I, fighting in a war—though one so much less—' He abandoned that thought, and said, 'that I should also have met an Englishman, who has become... such a dear friend.' And he reached over and touched Robert's hand._

_'Yes,' said Robert after a moment. 'It is a strange coincidence.'_

_'Coincidence... Well, I have not told you all,' said Keith. 'I suppose you would not believe in the Highland second sight; but in my father's case it proved quite true. He was told by one who had it, shortly before he met this man, that they would meet, and that their meeting would be because of a heron. And so it was—he came across him after his horse took fright at the flight of a heron and had to be shot. Robert, you remember the Brandywine?'_

_'I should hope I do remember,' said Robert, smiling._

_'I had strayed away from my company because of something I saw, flying down the creek, towards where I found you—it was a heron...'_

_Throughout the events of that brief summer—the manoeuvres round the Chesapeake Bay, the turns and changes of the British generals' plans—Robert remembered this story; for he was a thoughtful man, and he would wonder about that shadowy Ewen Cameron whom Robert's own friend had left behind him in a cold Highland grave, and about the fortunes and the loves of long ago. He wondered, too, what the story might mean for himself._

_But they had not much time left to them now. That August the orders came to begin the fortifications at Yorktown. Robert would never forget the day they arrived there; he was marching with his own company and had long since lost sight of Keith, but as they approached the town he saw a heron, flying on its heavy wings along the York River and out towards the bay._

_By now his thoughts had definitely taken on the character of forebodings; but it availed him not. That fatal October was to put an end to Robert's fighting days for good; and Keith Cameron would never see Loch na h-Iolaire again._

*

For some time afterwards they both stood leaning upon the gate in silence, while a gentle breeze brushed over the yellow heads of the cowslips, and a blackbird began to sing from somewhere over by the river.

_The grief never left him..._ All this beauty, all the brightness of life that was here, could never restore his beloved to him. Happy in the life he had now—with his friends and neighbours about him, with the warm welcome of Aston House always open to him, and with his nephew to care for—there was still that in his heart which was cold. The breeze which blew over the meadow would always hold a chill that was strange amidst its healthy, carefree joy, and however bright the sun shone here there would always be a shadow across his path. His happiness here was true enough, and not small; but there was ever with him, quiet and insistent, the knowledge that there might instead have been a greater.

Fifty years before, Ewen Cameron of Ardroy had stood amongst the heather, looking out over that loch which Robert had never seen, and thought much the same things. For he, too, had been happy, in that life which the world accepts as happiness; and yet—

When Robert had first arrived in Oxfordshire—indeed, for some years afterwards—all he could feel at those memories was grief for the lover he would never see again. But, as the years separating him from the memory of America lengthened, that grief gradually began to take on a new aspect; for it was not only itself, and a greater shadow lay across it. He had thought of it when he gave his nephew the name which had taken on such significance: to what was he dooming him, in that choice? But perhaps it was not a choice, after all; for the conviction had grown stronger with time that there was an immutable destiny working upon them all, through all the weary years, and that he could not have prevented it—any more than his never having a son of his own blood had prevented it.

The two sights are not a power much in evidence amongst the gentry of Oxfordshire, and Robert could not see the whole of it. He knew nothing of Malplaquet, and Morar was but a faint echo behind the memory of his friend; but, thinking it over through those long years, he had guessed at more than he knew, and, being sensitive and somewhat susceptible, he dreaded more than he guessed. He wondered whether Ewen Cameron had shared these forebodings.

After a while, Keith said, 'Thank you.'

Robert looked up, and smiled sadly.

'Your friend,' he went on (Robert had not told him more than that), 'was a good and brave man, I can see. I am honoured.'

'I am glad you think so,' said Robert. 'I dare say he would have been too.'

'And,' said Keith Marsham, 'what you mean by telling me this, is...' He hesitated.

'That I do not want to give you up,' said Robert simply, 'for I greatly fear to what you are going. But of course you must go.'

'I assure you,' said Keith, his young voice earnest, 'I do not go lightly. I know what it has all cost you—but I mean to do my duty to King and country, whatever the danger.'

Robert had not quite meant that. But he nodded, and said nothing; for he had kept that part of the story, or of his own speculations, back as well. He did not think any good could be done by making his thoughts more plain, and in any case, Keith would probably have thought it a silly piece of superstition. He did not blame him.

The blackbird had started up its song again; it must have flown across the meadow to take up a position nearer to where they stood, for the sweet notes sounded much louder and clearer now. Keith had turned to watch the scene, and a look of pleasure replaced the serious expression of his face as he did so, no doubt in anticipation of some happy plan he had devised for the day—fishing in the river, perhaps, or going to call upon the Misses Aston. Seeing his happiness, and on a day like this, with the sun shining and those who had suffered long gone, Robert could almost believe that the past was really over. So it had once seemed to the happy family growing up by the shores of Loch na h-Iolaire. But it was not true. The ghosts were not so merciful; they had not been to Ewen Cameron... and there was, after all, something stronger than that happiness. It haunted them still.

At the far side of the meadow stood the line of stooping willows and alders whose young leaves made a green veil for the Cherwell beyond them. Robert could not see the river itself; but he could see the great bird winging its way above it, turning as it flew to follow the water in its meanderings, its slow, steady flight like that of a messenger. He dreaded to know what the message might be.

He looked at Keith, and said, 'I believe that there is a great shadow over our past. I hope there may be no such shadow upon your future.'

And, six weeks later, watching his boy walk away down the garden path with a song upon his lips and his new red coat upon his back, he hoped so still. But he could not believe it.

**Author's Note:**

> The 'old' 71st Regiment of Foot, Fraser's Highlanders, was one of various new Highland regiments formed in the late eighteenth century (confusingly, after it was disbanded another of them was given the same number); it was raised in 1775 by Simon Fraser, whose father had been executed for his part in the Rising of 1745. Captain Charles Cameron of Fassefern stood in for his cousin John Cameron of Lochiel, son of the Lochiel of _Flight of the Heron_ , whose health prevented him from joining the regiment.
> 
> The information about the Keith family is also historical, although the survival of a Caithness branch of the clan into the eighteenth century is speculation on my part; in fact, what appears to have been their only property in that county was sold a hundred years earlier. George Keith, 10th Earl Marischal, who fought in the Duke of Marlborough's army, was later a leader of the Jacobite Rising of 1719. I think it's intriguing that Keith is not only a Scottish name but a definitely Jacobite one!
> 
> Keith Marsham's backstory is modelled on that of Mary Thorne in Anthony Trollope's novel _Doctor Thorne_.
> 
> It wouldn't have been the same species of heron in North America, of course—I suspect the birds seen by Robert and Keith Cameron there were great blue heron ( _Ardea herodias_ ), a close relative of the European grey heron ( _A. cinerea_ ).


End file.
